I spent three days in complete darkness with no phone, clock, or music.

And I ate, shit, and showered in the dark.

So what happened in the darkness for three days?

Well... a lot of things happened.

I went a little mad for a bit and wanted to quit before my candlelight burned into the darkness. I squeezed my eyes shut because, truthfully, I wasn’t ready to meet Darkness.

I slept.

I mean, I slept like a baby inside a dark, cozy womb.

I slept so long that my friends delivering my meals weren’t sure I was alive because I never answered their knocks. They eventually decided I was still living whenever they heard me cough or shuffle around.

Good enough.

I cried.

Then I wept.

I wept in the fetal position.

I wept kneeling on the floor.

I wept while eating.

I wept in the shower.

I told myself stories out of fear to distract myself from the stillness. I prayed. I confessed. I sang old hymnal songs I didn’t even know I still remembered.

I even sang The Old Rugged Cross—the hymn I hated growing up.

Yet somehow...

I knew every word.

I even twerked on my bed.

Twerked on my yoga mat.

Well... why not?

No one was watching.

When people hear “darkness retreat,” they imagine monks levitating or people becoming completely enlightened.

Meanwhile...

I was wondering where I’d put my phone in case I needed to call 911.

I wondered if I was going to lose my mind.

Would I need my therapist afterward to process the trauma I had voluntarily signed myself up for?

· · ·

Then something shifted.

It was so subtle.

Like a breeze brushing the back of my neck.

Maybe it was a kiss from the darkness.

Time disappeared.

Not metaphorically.

Literally.

There was nowhere to be.

No phone.

No laptop.

No watch.

No notifications.

No alarms.

No emails.

No sunrise telling me it was morning.

No sunset reminding me to slow down.

No one yelling,

“Mama! Why are all the socks missing?”

(Still one of life’s greatest mysteries.)

It was just...

me.

At first I waited for something profound to happen.

Surely I’d unlock the secrets of the universe.

Instead...

I unlocked how unbelievably tired my body was.

So I took a lot of naps.

Somewhere in between sleeping and crying, my memories began playing in slow motion—as if I were watching my life through an old 90s camcorder.

Something softened inside me.

I stopped obsessing over what time it was, what I was supposed to learn, or how I could somehow become more productive.

Instead I caught myself laughing.

“Sheesh... I think a lot.”

I mean...

I overthink everything.

So much that I’d forgotten how to simply be where I already was.

I was bone tired.

Soul tired.

And slowly...

Curiosity replaced urgency.

I didn’t even want answers anymore.

· · ·

I became curious about my own body.

What would pleasure feel like without a clock?

Without rushing?

Without performance?

Without my beloved support system...

Joey.

Yes.

I named my favorite vibrator Joey.

I first met Joey at a sex shop next to Citylights Church in the West Village.

My old vibrator had died, so Kurt—my gay universe bestie—and his husband Peter after church took it upon themselves to help me find my next life partner.

Joey has faithfully served ever since.

Before leaving for the retreat, I tucked him beside my bed to charge.

“We’ll be apart for a few days,” I told him.

“I’ll be back.”

So there I was.

Complete darkness.

Complete silence.

Except...

My heartbeat.

Turns out your own heartbeat is surprisingly loud in the dark.

I’ll spare you the details.

But baby girl...

I screamed so loudly I had to stop because I was afraid my neighbors would call 911 and accidentally end my retreat.

Thank God they didn’t.

Because somewhere between those breaths...

I realized it wasn’t really about pleasure.

It was about intimacy.

For the first time in my life, darkness gave me permission to be...

Nothing.

Nothing to achieve.

Nothing to produce.

Nothing to prove.

Just...

The ordinary me.

I met myself with tenderness instead of demand.

With curiosity instead of urgency.

Slowing down enough to feel every inch of my own skin became a prayer.

It felt as though my body and I were finally having a reunion.

And I wondered...

What if intimacy begins within ourselves first?

What if intimacy begins long before another person arrives?

· · ·

Then came the craziest part.

I fell in love again.

Not with a person.

I fell in love with Planet Earth again.

With prayer again.

With my own heartbeat again.

With coffee again.

With sunsets again.

With Mondays again.

I fell back in love with being ordinary.

And I remembered that my wonderfully ordinary life is actually quite extraordinary.

I found myself relishing my coffee before my kids wake up.

Relishing watering my plants every Tuesday and Thursday.

Relishing heartbreak.

Even relishing my stubborn stomach stretch marks.

I honestly thought I entered the darkness to face death.

Maybe even become a little more enlightened.

But the great paradox was this:

I walked into the darkness...

and met life.

So when the retreat ended...

I didn’t leave with answers.

I left with better questions.

I didn’t become enlightened.

I didn’t become holier.

Instead...

I left the darkness having fallen in love.

· · ·

Every night before I fall asleep, I ask myself the same question.

“Hey baby girl... was today a good day to die?”

Not because I want to die.

But because I want to relish life.

If tonight were my last night...

Did I notice the sunset?

Did I laugh until I snorted?

Did I tell someone I loved them?

Did I let my heart break instead of harden?

Did I pray?

Did I delight in my own body?

Did I remember that this ordinary, messy, breathtaking life is astonishingly precious?

Because one day there really will be...

A last sunset.

A last cup of coffee.

A last hug from someone you love.

A last ordinary Monday.

And when that day comes...

I hope I can whisper to myself,

“Oh, what a beautiful life.”

P.S. Come sit in my living room (virtually).

Some of you have asked what actually happens during a darkness retreat.

So on Thursday, July 30 at 7:00 p.m. ET, I’m opening my laptop instead of a retreat center. I know it’s sorta last minute, but why not?

I’ll tell you everything.

The funny parts.

The awkward parts.

The spiritual parts.

The Joey parts.

And, of course, I’ll answer your questions.

Bring your favorite beverage or dessert. (Or both. I won’t judge.)

If you have someone you love—a partner, best friend, or cool sibling—invite them too.

And if you’re coming solo, you’ll be in good hands.

If you’d like to join me...

Reply to this email with three words:

Hey baby girl.

I’ll save you a seat.

Until then...

I hope you notice something ordinary today that reminds you how beautiful it is to be alive.

Hey baby girl...

Keep practicing being alive.

— Viji

Three days without light. I came out and accidentally fell in love with Planet Earth. I now have love affairs with trees.

It wasn’t until last week, while watching Game 5 of the Knicks vs. Spurs, that I realized I had already found it.

It was the fourth quarter, and my mind, body, and heart were being held hostage at the edge of a turbulent river between defeat and victory. There were so many moments when it felt like both were possible at once, yet only one team would walk away with the championship.

And then something shifted.

My mind finally caught up with my body.

I wanted to go home.

Home to New York City. To stand in the gritty, dirty, sweaty streets with my fellow New Yorkers. I wanted to cry, shout, celebrate, and completely lose myself. I wanted to hug strangers and even the annoying neighbor who always gives me a dirty look because my dog, Shea—a 40-pound Chihuahua trapped in another body and acts like she owns our entire 19-story building.

For the first time, I felt nostalgic for New York.

I wanted to celebrate the victory and make a fool of myself. I wanted to lose my shit.

Because I am home.

I am a New Yorker with just a hint of a California accent.

That same week, I told my parents and my brother that I might lose my inheritance.

I had pledged my allegiance to the Knicks.

My family are die-hard Lakers fans. I grew up in the Kobe Bryant and Shaquille O’Neal era, when watching a Lakers game felt like going to church. It was sacred, almost reverent. The game stopped everything.

So when I told them I was no longer a Lakers girl, that I was a Knicks girl now…they understood.

They didn’t ask why.

They, too, are a Knicks fans.

Nothing else needed to be explained.

I am home.

I am here.

After 18 years of searching, I have finally landed.

Looking back, I can see my body knew before I did.

I remember something had shifted in my spirit.

Something broke open.

Or maybe something finally let go.

I was sitting with my guide during a session. I can’t remember if it was meant to be a follow-up from my MDMA journey or a straight-up spiritual check-in. Either way, by the time I arrived, I was a fucking hot train wreck.

That morning had already chewed me up.

Summer didn’t make the volleyball team, again, and I was drying her tears while scrambling eggs, packing lunches, and trying to hold the entire universe together before 8 a.m.

Once all three girls were out the door, I shoved my infamous Pop-Tart fuel into my mouth, laced up my running shoes, and hustled to meet my running group and Coach Alan for speedwork.

I was already dreading it.

I felt jittery. Clumsy. Off.

I’m always a little clumsy, but this felt different. Heavier. Messier.

My inner she-god guide was whispering something important, but I brushed her off.

I didn’t have time.

I never have time.

After the run, I rushed home, showered, and shoved another Pop-Tart into my mouth while getting dressed. I grabbed my favorite loose brown bohemian dress with delicate shoulder straps and threw on my cream cropped vest with embroidery.

My kids barf every time I wear it.

Elderly women compliment me.

I have decided that’s my target demographic.

I feel divine and liberated in it.

Shit.

I looked at my watch.

I had to sprint to the subway.

Getting to my guide’s place required three trains and the kind of commitment normally reserved for long-distance relationships.

So there I was, power-walking, then full-on running down escalators. I spotted the train just as the doors began to close.

Olympic-level focus.

I skipped steps.

Every second mattered.

Somehow, miraculously, I squeezed through the doors.

YES.

Phew.

And then I felt it.

My straps had come undone.

My dress was slowly sliding off my chest.

I clutched the fabric, found the nearest seat, and collapsed.

Sweating.

Buckets.

Welcome to your forties.

The sweat had soaked through my dress. I fanned myself with my notebook and gulped water like I’d just crossed the Sahara.

Naturally, I spilled half of it directly into my lap.

So now it looked like I’d peed on myself.

The subway riders stared with exactly zero compassion.

Broken dress.

Wet crotch.

New York City does not care.

If you want grit, resilience, and thick skin, ride the subway.

I texted my guide that I’d be late and that I wanted to cry on the train.

Do you know what actually freaks New Yorkers out?

Not pole dancers.

Not a guy clipping his toenails.

Not someone chopping vegetables on a cutting board.

It’s crying.

A wailing, heartbroken person on a quiet train car is apparently where we draw the line.

So I swallowed my tears.

Stuffed them deep into my soul like a seasoned New Yorker.

Then, because humiliation apparently comes in layers, I decided I could fix my straps right there on the G train.

Bad idea.

I twisted around, wrestling with spaghetti straps behind my back, nearly pulling a muscle.

Eventually fatigue took over.

The straps slipped.

And suddenly I flashed my flat-chested boobs, barely covered by the tiny nipple covers I’d panic-bought from Instagram at midnight.

Directly in front of a group of older Orthodox Jewish men.

Their faces registered pure horror.

As if I had personally shattered their innocence.

I apologized immediately.

Profusely.

Mortified.

I wanted the train to swallow me whole.

At the next stop, they quietly moved to the next train car.

Through the sliding doors they stared at me as if I were some kind of corrupting force.

I mouthed, “I am so sorry.”

By the time I arrived at my guide’s place, my dress was still a mess, my lap was still wet, and I felt like a woman held together by dental floss and sheer determination.

I tried to hold my head high.

To own my beautiful mess.

But underneath it all, I was exhausted.

Bone tired.

Soul tired.

Something had already ended.

I didn’t know it consciously yet, but some deeper part of me knew.

The body often knows before the mind is willing to admit it.

Looking back now, I think that entire subway ride was a living metaphor.

Nothing was staying fastened.

Nothing was holding together.

Everything I was trying to manage, control, and keep from falling apart was slipping through my fingers.

And maybe that was the invitation.

Not to hold on tighter.

But to let go.

A couple of weeks later, Sam and I decided to separate.

When I look back now, I realize I was already standing in the doorway between two lives.

Disoriented.

Heartbroken.

Half-dressed.

Sweaty.

Certain I had somehow lost control of everything.

But it was holy ground.

The sacred, terrifying place where one life is ending before the next one has begun.

Sometimes the soul knows long before we’re ready to know.

Sometimes grace arrives disguised as an unraveling.

And sometimes grace arrives looking exactly like a broken dress, a wet crotch, and a subway car full of witnesses.

I’ve been going back and forth on whether to share one of my more vulnerable stories — the kind I’ve never written about or said out loud to most of you. Then a new friend looked at me and said, “Your stories are your gifts.” So I’m trusting that.

Here’s my offering.

Post Up: Marathon #3

Maybe running my third NYC Marathon was the charm, or maybe it cracked open some portal I didn’t even know existed. It’s wild because it’s the same course, same fucking bridges, same mileage, same five-borough lovers. Everything was the same… except me.

This time, I felt more rooted in myself. More trusting of that inner knowing…that intuition that half the time scares the shit out of me but also keeps whispering, “We’re rewriting the rules now.”

And God, it feels so damn good to say that out loud. Because for most of my life up until last year, I was carrying this heavy yoke of being the warrior, the peacemaker, the one who holds the world together and doesn’t lose her shit. I didn’t notice that I was doing it at the expense of slowly killing myself. It wasn’t the good death I always imagined.

I was exhausted. Burned out. Lonely (shocker, I know). Not even fully human anymore. And somewhere along the way I forgot the most obvious truth: I matter too.

I forgot how to belly laugh. How to chase wonder. How to cry and take risks and show myself compassion. Fear and doubt built so many layers around me that my inner knowing..my sacred, holy spark got trapped in a mental prison. She wasn’t gone. She was buried, waiting for me to remember her.

And remembering her… was messy as hell.

About a year ago, I was on my living room floor, curled in a fetal position, whispering into the phone for Jessica to “come now.” The look on her face when she walked in—I had never let anyone see me that undone. Not even Sam (my husband of 20 years).

That same week, I collapsed on the floor of my therapist’s office. He sat beside me quietly, checking on me every few minutes. I think I scared the shit out of him too. I couldn’t speak, which is hilarious because therapy is usually where I talk like I’m getting paid by the word.

But those tears weren’t just 2024-Sarah. They were the 4-year-old girl left alone in a sterile research room with fluorescent lights and a doll for some study, screaming for her mom. Alone.

And the 15-year-old girl who swallowed a bottle of Tylenol.. not because she wanted to die, but because her heartache felt heavier than her body could hold. I remember the stomach pump. The shame. The silence. Alone.

To this day, if you look in my medicine cabinet, you’ll only find Motrin. My heart still aches for the 15-year-old girl.

And yet… somehow, I got up and kept going. Maybe my inner knowing was stronger than I believed. Maybe God kept sending me different versions of Mister Rogers at every dark chapter. But I see now: it was the people who never lost faith in me who helped me reclaim all the parts of myself, especially the ones I’d hidden.

Marathon #3 was different because I’m different.

I’m not the same person who ran Marathon #1 or #2. Thank God.

I’m remembering who the hell I am: I am a lover. I am funny. I am curious. I am a storyteller. I am full of wonder and full of bullshit, depending on the day. I am strong. And I’m learning that soft is also strong.

Soft… me?! I know. Another shocker. Turns out I’m a sensitive soul who loves cuddling. Wild, right? Now I want to cuddle the shit out of everyone and hold your hand.

And honestly… I am clumsy. And maybe clumsy is the new holy sacred as I navigate uncharted ground.

And here’s the real plot twist: I finally believe I’m pretty cool.
Okay…fucking awesome.
And I’m not apologizing for it. Unless you bake amazing pastries. Then okay, maybe I care a little.

So what was different on the course?

Around mile 6, I found that perfect pace…the one that doesn’t kill you but still makes you feel like a badass…and Fear showed up beside me like an old friend.

She said, “This is as far as I can go. I can’t take you any further.”

I held my breath and softened. I thanked her. I didn’t realize how much she’d carried me, kept me careful, kept me alive. She was tired too.

And then no joke, Joy stepped forward. It felt exactly like a scene from Inside Out. I should rewatch it. Joy looked at Fear with total reverence and said, “Hey, I got her from here.”

For the first time I realized: they were on the same team. Both rooting for me. Both wanting me to finish.

From mile 7 to the finish line and honestly long after, I ran with Joy inside me. I felt lighter, even when my legs were heavy. Holy-messy. Free. Open to receiving love from my friends, my crew, my family.

Even getting stung by a bee under my damn armpit right after crossing the finish line couldn’t ruin it. (Seriously… only me.)

And the purple hair? The Sharpie panther tattoo drawn by Khloe?
There’s a whole story there too.

Let’s just say… I didn’t run this marathon alone.
And maybe that’s the real portal that opened.

What’s next:
Marathon #4 — absolutely not, my legs filed a complaint.
Ultra Trail 50-Mile Run #1 — TBD… probably somewhere with mountains, sand, and questionable life choices.

________________________________

My nightly ritual:
Every night before bed, I pause and ask myself,
“Was today a good day to die?”

I know.
Super casual.
Totally normal bedtime thought, right?

But it’s my way of checking in with my soul,
like,
“Hey baby girl… did we live today?
Did we love well? Did we do anything brave…like flirt with the hot bird watcher (yes, they exist!)?”

So tonight I’m asking you too, with love and with the grace of someone who got stung by a bee immediately after the finish line:

“Was today a good day to die?”